


Testing a Theory

by Rubynye



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, Sparring, Stripping, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4483520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Natasha spar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Testing a Theory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KByrd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KByrd/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sparring with Natasha](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1938759) by [KByrd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KByrd/pseuds/KByrd). 



> Written for FemmeRemix 2015, based on KByrd's delightful [Sparring with Natasha](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1938759)

Following Natasha's directions, Steve counts four doors down the hallway, enters the code, watches the light come on, and smiles at what he sees. This little room is expressly designed for sparring, a mat filling most of the floor, more hung on all four walls and even attached to the ceiling. No room for a crowd of spectators here, just a few people testing each other and perhaps an instructor.

For a moment Steve thinks back to the boxing gyms of his youth, to Bucky wrapping his hands to show him the right way. For a moment he can almost smell the old place, sun-warmed wood and sweat, sharp liniment and waxy Brylcreem in Bucky's precisely combed hair. 

For a moment, until Steve blinks the memory away and crosses into this modern little workout room, his bare feet scuffing near silently across the flat smooth floor, the air cool and clean with a faint chemical scent from the polymer-coated mats This is his life now.

There are even some good things in it. The door creaks open behind him as he drops his workout bag by the wall and crosses to the center, feeling the warm glow of red hair without needing to look up. He turns as the mats squeak beneath Natasha's feet, her one concession. Her leggings today are an opalescent purple, her top kingfisher blue, and she smiles at him with shiny pink lips, wearing unnecessary, artful makeup, as if she doesn't expect to break a sweat.

Steve grins at the challenge, shoulders loose, hands at his sides; Natasha flashes her bright teeth at him, and it's on. 

He never quite remembers just how fast she is. She doesn't just dart in, she spins in, making it harder to pick a target spot, but Steve's learning. It's not that he wants to hit a lady in the chest, but whether breast or back a good punch should stagger her -- and an unsuccessful one gets blocked, his own momentum turned against him as she grabs hold just long enough to let him wrench his wrist before she lets go. 

She's good. Steve lets the pain blaze up his nerves and subside, lets it stretch his grin wide. She's good, but so is he, and he's got a longer reach. Women fight with their legs, Natasha and Maria pointed out to him, so when they charge at each other this time Steve uses his and lands a hit, kicking Natasha sideways hard enough to tumble her over in a bright splash of hair.

She rolls into it, her shirt waving strangely -- upside down, she flings it at him. Steve bats it out of his face just in time to get punched in the stomach and a knee to the jaw and it's his turn to struggle for footing, barely evading Natasha's next swing, skipping back in a brief tactical advance backwards as he blinks floating spots from his eyes. Her brassiere's black lace, he can see the outlines of her nipples, oh, unfair, unfair. Smudging his knuckles across his mouth he feints left, then punches downwards, grazing her shoulder as she dodges, jumping over her leg-sweep, whipping his shirt over his head to toss it under her running feet.

Once again, Natasha turns a fall into a flip, reversing her momentum smoothly as she backflips away from Steve's charge, bounding off the wall to slam her shoulder into his chest. He can grab her -- he tries to grab her -- she ducks down and cartwheels away with a deep little chuckle. 

She doesn't fight like Peggy, Steve thinks once again. Peggy had fists like concrete and thighs like steel and she turned anything in reach into a weapon. He once saw her use a lamp to KO a man. Natasha flips and dodges and lunges, but there's a pattern in it, if Steve can suss it out, feinting and weaving and giving up a few hits as he observes. Natasha leaps at him and instead of trying to knock her back he shoves her up, following her trajectory, ready to knock her out of the air when she falls back down --

She twists in midair like a torpedo, like a cat, and Steve's going to get her to teach him that move, he ducks under her kick, right into her other foot, heel into temple in an electric starburst of pain.

Steve doesn't quite roll with it, but he leans into the tumble and gets hand and knees under himself right away, like he used to before Dr. Erskine transformed him. Natasha reminds him of his back alley fights, taking on opponents twice her size, though she does a damn sight better than he used to. She comes in for the finish, he can see it in her bright eyes, and as he tips sideways he swings his knee forward as hard as he can.

A thwack and a puff that would be a cry from anyone else, and Natasha tumbles ragdoll-limp into the wall. Steve gets his feet beneath him and jumps up, heart stuttering, hoping he hasn't actually hurt her, he didn't hear the safe word --

Purple leggings fly at him, and instead of trying to duck Steve grabs them out of the air, twirls them and snaps them at Natasha as she rolls to her feet, her black panties matching her bra. Or, at least, Steve tries. She grabs the leggings, jerking the slick material from his grasp, dives under his swing and actually pants him, dragging his shorts down around his calves as she flips away laughing and he falls on his face.

"Foul!" Steve shouts, a little outraged, mostly hot all over.

"All's fair in love and war!" Natasha shouts back, and her breasts are bouncing free, round and full and lovely and that's her bra in her hand and Steve barely has a moment to wonder why before Natasha shows him, snapping it at his face. He dodges, knowing as he moves that it's a mistake, and she sweeps his legs out from beneath him and rides him down to the mat, straddling his chest and kneeling on his elbows.

This spar is over. "Helicarrier," Steve puffs amiably, lifting his hands either side of Natasha's heaving chest. At least she's broken a sweat, and he can see a warm pink bruise from where he shoved her, below those distractingly pretty breasts. 

Natasha just leans in grinning, until her hair falls around Steve's face in a warm red cloud. She stops there, smiling at him like a cat at a delicious canary, and doesn't lean in any closer. She didn't last time either. One of these days he's actually going to win, he promises himself, not least because maybe then he'll work up the nerve to ask for a kiss as his prize.

After all, it's not like he likes to lose. It's just that Natasha makes it not so bad. "Mmm," she purrs, "look what I caught." She reaches behind her, arching her back, slides her hand into Steve's jockeys and unsnaps his supporter, and rides his shudder as she palms his dick. From this angle, filling his vision, Natasha towers, pink and curvaceous and laced with scars like jewelry, as if her petiteness is nothing but an illusion. "I keep telling you," she says, tugging a long slow stroke on him, "you need a date."

"I keep answering," Steve gasps, watching Natasha rise and fall with his deep breaths, "I'm too busy."

Natasha makes a doubtful "Mrrr," and lets go to shimmy forward off Steve's arms, her knees landing either side of his head, her rich scent rolling off her heated skin. "I'm going to find you someone."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Steve breathes, as Natasha's eyes twinkle, as she rocks forward just enough to hook two fingers in her black lace panties and tug them aside.

"Let's see what we have to work with," she murmurs, shifting forward a little bit more. "You can use your hands." Steve takes a deep savory breath and one more glimpse of Natasha leaning over him, before he lifts his hands and shuts his eyes to concentrate. As he opens his eager mouth, curving one hand around her flexible waist, he takes a moment to raise the other in a single-fingered salute to the hidden camera in the corner.

_Coda_

Halfway across the building and fifteen floors up, Clint Barton cries out dramatically, flinging a hand across his face. "Such vulgarity! My virgin eyes!"

Maria Hill, meanwhile, bursts into a rare peal of laughter as she leans forward towards the screen. "Sure, Barton," she drawls, tweaking the sound up a few notches.

"He's a childhood hero and she can kill us both in our sleep. C'mon, isn't the show over?"

"I'd say it's just beginning." As the last word leaves Maria's mouth,something tiny whizzes by her ear and her screen goes to static. She turns to Clint, who's standing with crossed arms, and matches him frown for frown. "Well you're no fun anymore."

"But that's my only line." Clint folds his arms a bit tighter. 

After a moment, Maria rolls her eyes, turns off the monitor, and takes a few seconds to search out the dart and pluck it off. "Seriously?" she asks as she tosses it back to Clint, who snags it out of the air. "I thought you said you didn't adopt her."

"She's never been my stray kitten," Clint agrees, pocketing the dart. "I just don't want anything interfering with my memories of when she pulled that trick on me."

Maria stands up, laughing again, and as she punches him in the bicep Clint smiles.


End file.
